Burn Me
by woodbyne
Summary: In which Alfred learns that you can't play with fire without getting burnt. One-sided USCan.


Alfred watched as the red-gold of the flames he had started licked up the sides of Matthew's buildings, Matthew's city, and he couldn't help but compare the flickering, dancing fire to the Canadian's hair. The colour nearest the base of the flames was almost identical.

The cool air did nothing to stop the billowing smoke, and the breeze only served to fan the flames. Crackling and snapping, wood warped and glowed beneath the tender caress. Fire raced, catching on wood, thatch, fabric, people, animals; anything flammable at all. The dark shroud of the fire was filled with golden sparks, a dark parody of the night sky above.

The American watched in wonder as the crimson flowers that crowned the shrieking, dancing fire spat forth there pollen into the evening air. Beautiful. Who would have thought that so much destruction could be so lovely? The flames danced like a woman between the houses, trailing gently touches along all that she passed, leaving tiny white-gold blooms in her wake.

On the verdant hilltop, he was completely detached from the pandemonium below, the people scurrying and screaming like rats in a barrel. They harmonised perfectly with the dull howl and boom of the fire, ripping, flapping and catching like a canvas in the wind – her moods as mercurial as her appearance, one minute she danced, the next she fought; a berserking cyclone of flame. But always, she destroyed.

Sitting down, Alfred looked at the man beside him, whose hoarse screams echoed that of his people as he lay on the ground, back arched. Matthew's face was contorted with pain and his hands scrabbled uselessly at his chest, fingernails clawing at the material to get it away from his burning flesh. The smell was sickly, and filled the air with the perverse aroma of roasting meat.

Looping his arms under Matthew's, Alfred pulled the writhing Canadian into his lap, sitting him so that they were chest-to-back. Struggling and lashing out, he tried to push himself out of the American's grasp. Sobs of pain mingled with growls of defiance in his throat, but they did nothing to dissuade his captor.

A calloused palm caressed Matthew's cheek, the thumb rubbing half-circles into his cheekbone, and he whimpered in response, trying to pull away from those tender touches. Alfred smiled gently into his brother's neck, his hands moving down, caressing the Canuck's shoulders, his arms, his searing chest, all as a lover might. His smiling lips moved up moved up that taut neck to tease a soft earlobe, tugging at it with his lips before nipping at it sharply – the pain of which was lost in the roiling inferno that Canada housed in his skin.

"There, there, Matthew," Alfred cooed in his ear, nuzzling his face against the Canadian's cheek, "Hush now," his hands stroke down his thighs, smoothing the crumpled fabric of the taller blond's breeches with his wide palms. "Burn for me, Mattie, everything will be fine, just burn," his hands ran gently back up those legs, pushing aside Matthew's shirt as America's hands continued on their journey over his trembling stomach and too-hot chest.

Carelessly, the southern nation's powerful hands shredded Canada's shirt, leaving his bubbling, blistering skin exposed to the smoky, hellish night. The mantra of soothing words and encouragements continued to spill from Alfred's lips as he blew gently on the melted flesh in a horribly twisted imitation of a caring someone blowing on hot food to cool it. Matthew's skin was deformed, warped and misshapen in the heat, and the pain it caused him is near unbearable. He tossed his head back against America's shoulder, vocalising his agony with a shredded larynx.

The flames burnt hotter and hotter, faster and faster they swirled and chuckled, wrapping themselves in a glittering cloak about York. Matthew moaned and whimpered, doing his best not to scream as the heat in his chest scorched his veins and shrivelled his viscera; cooking him from the inside out.

"Hush, hush, Mattie," Alfred soothed, earnest, caring touches fluttering against Canada's cheeks, "Just burn." The flames reached the crescendo of their dance and the Canadian's bitten lips parted in a howl of anguish. It was more than just his own cry of pain, it was the voice of his land, the voice of his people, of his city, his creatures; all layered together in the unholy peacock's shriek that wrenched itself from his vocal chords.

The fire was dying, the people hurrying to put it out, to salvage what was left of their homes, and Matthew settled down, limbs overwrought and shaking, chests shuddering with ragged breathes as he sagged against America. He would rather it were someone – _anyone_ – else, but he was too weak to move.

Carefully, almost reverentially, the American shifted Matthew from his lap and laid him flat out on the grass, stroking sweat-soaked hair back from his face. It was no longer the colour of flames, but a dull sepia, and Alfred frowned. The Canadian's indigo eyes fluttered open, and he smiled again, only to have the northern nation spit at him; quite impressively for one so weak.

Clicking his tongue in a chiding fashion, Alfred's warm lips pressed first to Canada's sweat-cooled brow, and then his parted lips, the second kiss lingered more than the first.

"I hope you can forgive me, Mattie," America said softly, tender expression fixedly in place as he touched the other's face for another minute more before getting up and walking away back down the hill to where his men were waiting.

~====o)0(o====~

Flames painted the sky a bloody red, but the beauty of it was lost on America, who writhed on the ground, trying in vain to escape the white-hot dagger of pain that lanced through his chest. Footsteps crunched beside him, their owner making no effort to hide himself. Blurry blue eyes looked up at the man who loomed over him. Flame-coloured hair, indigo eyes. Matthew. Alfred didn't know if he wanted to rejoice, or lament, but all he could really do was scream and sob.

He forced himself to focus on Matthew's eyes, hoping that they would bring him comfort through his pain, but they were cold; dead. America's eyes dropped to Canada's open shirt, which exposed his bandaged chest. The linen was stained sick yellow and rust brown. Looking back up, in a mind-clearing flash of pain as the Whitehouse beside him re-ignited, he saw golden sparks dancing in the blue-purple depths of the northern nation's eyes and his breath quickened.

Matthew's expression was still utterly blank as he opened his mouth, speaking clearly to the agonized American,

"_Burn_."


End file.
